I finished The Kreutzer Sonata a few days ago and really enjoyed the book. It's a small, cheap edition of three of Tolstoy's stories: How Much Land Does a Man Need?, The Death of Ivan Ilych, & The Kreutzer Sonata. Firstly, I had never read any of these short stories and enjoyed them quite a bit. I especially liked How Much Land Does a Man Need? While, the ending might have been a bit predictable, the wording and the meaning is quite excellent. It's a very short tale that slams the greediness inherent to human beings and serves as a warning against the pains that greediness will bring.
The way Tolstoy writes about coming to grips with man's end in The Death of Ivan Ilych is among some of the best inner-monologue I think I've ever read. The pain and the suffering internally Ivan has in Tolstoy's work is so well written that I felt sweat beads coming down my brow as I experienced the pangs along with Ivan. Likewise, the jealousy that Pozdnyshev feels throughout The Kreutzer Sonata is so well articulated that I was reliving some old feelings that I thought I had divested myself of long ago. His rage was so palpable I felt myself tensing up and was nearly relieved when the climax came. That relief however was twofold and some modern circumstances aided Tolstoy's literary prowess.
I was coming to the conclusion of The Kreutzer Sonata as I was selling plasma. I don't think I've ever written about this experience, but I have apparently expressed my feelings well enough about this to Erin that she mocks my grief at subjecting myself to this torture. I feel embarrassed at selling plasma. I didn't so much feel it when I was younger and in college, but as a grown man I feel embarrassed by the entire situation. I think I should be able to make enough money at thirty-two so as not to be forced to degrade myself in such a manner, but at the same time it's good spending money and I'm basically paid to sit and read. It's a hassle and probably not really worth my time, but if I go twice a week it's a payment of $65 dollars for six hours, four of which are sitting in a waiting room and two of which are with a needle in my vein.
The embarrassment doesn't fully come from the fact that I'm selling part of my body that will replenish itself. The embarrassment comes from the company I keep while doing this veritable prostitution. While I was in college the mix of people selling plasma alongside me was about 80% college kids, 20% other. That other is, without trying to be elitist (although accomplishing it nonetheless) what I would term 'undesirables'. Sometimes the mix would have a larger proportion of that other and the 19 or 20 year-old iteration of me may have occasioned to use the phrase, "the dregs of societies" and that instance may have occurred enough to burn that elitist phrase into my personal lexicon. The 31 and 32 year-old iterations of me then may have described the undesirable caste in such derogatory language and my wife instantly seized upon the phraseology. Thus, some of my embarrassment may arise not only with being a part of that caste, but my own derogatory words being used to describe me in the mouth of another. My embarrassment is thus multi-pronged in that I'm embarrassed to need the money, embarrassed to be among the undesirables, and embarrassed that I have described them as such (because it sounds so awfully high-handed when she says it). Each of these prongs needles me as I'm being needled. But, I am not so embarrassed to spend the money. Plus, it gives me a good five to six hours to sit and read, relatively uninterrupted.
But, on my attempt to finish The Kreutzer Sonata was not uninterrupted, as it were. A certain member of the lowly caste, a person among the dregs would not let me finish the book in peace. Much of the final short story is an inner struggle with jealousy and a lot of psychological feeling and not much action. It is building to an action, namely Pozdnyshev killing his wife. I know that Pozdnyshev is going to kill his wife. I know why he is going to kill his wife - jealousy. But, I am unsure, intentionally led on, as to first, how if he is going to kill his wife and second, if the killing is justifiable (if only in Pozdnyshev's mind). The story is clear on the former and a bit opaque on the latter. But, there is a great deal of psychological turmoil leading up to the climatic scene and I was lying on the table, with a needle in my arm, desperately trying to race the plasma being pumped out of me to finish the story. The lady next to me however was screaming at the workers. Apparently, she did not look at the three hours or so as a time to sit back, relax and read. She took those three hours or more as a time to complain about whatever popped into her mind.
In the lobby while we were waiting she found someone to commiserate with. The two, then three, then four commiserated rather loudly and I changed places on three occasions to escape the commiserating, but it was omnipresent. This is a normal occurrence among this caste of society, but normally I can drown it out and focus on what I'm reading. It took some practice, but I was able to succeed in the end. But, in the back, she was placed on the table next to me as we were being hooked up to our blood machines. First, she complained about the temperature in the room. Being cold-natured, I tend to enjoy the chilliness of the room where we are actually drained of our fluids to be used as life-giving medicines (there is an altruism to this practice as well, though I am confident that neither she nor I really care most of the time about this altruistic reason for "donating" plasma). However, on this occasion, her complaint about the coldness of the room was not unfounded. Second, she complained about the television not being loud enough for her to hear the movie being played. I offer her no solace on this point as I had to concentrate hard to drown out the volume to concentrate on my book. Lastly, as the time neared for the last bus to leave her station she began to scream about being at the donation center for an inordinate amount of time. It takes entirely too long, each and every time plasma donation occurs. This particular time was no different, neither longer nor shorter than normal. But, just as I am coming to the dramatic action of the book, she was coming to dramatic action of her donation. She finished her donation; I did not finish my book.
I finished it later that evening, in the quiet of my own home.
There was much to be admired in the short little book, but this blurb has gone on to be lengthier than I had originally intended. However, this anecdote was funny (after the fact) and I felt it was worthy to be retold here. For this reason, I'll include only two quotes from The Kreutzer Sonata that really struck me. The first is, "What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness! A beautiful woman utters absurdities; we listen and we hear not the absurdities, but wise thoughts. She speaks, does odious things, and yet we are only conscious of something agreeable. If she refrains from absurd or hateful words and acts, and if she is beautiful to boot, we are straightway convinced that she is a paragon of wisdom and morality" (Tolstoy, 78). There are two things to unpack here. The first is the sentence, "What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness". I know that Tolstoy is speaking here about women in general, but it struck me from a philosophical level. Truly, it is strange that we equate beauty with goodness on an aesthetic level. Second, as a man who has undergone a rough relationship or two, I understand (though I try to suppress) the inner rage at the absurdity of the situation that a good looking woman can have on an otherwise relatively clear thinking man. Tolstoy certainly hits the nail on the head in better language than I could. But the formula is fairly simple: a good looking woman can get away with just about anything simply for the fact that she is good looking.
The second passage goes, "Woman has transformed herself into an object of pleasure of such terrible effect that a man cannot calmly approach her. No sooner does a man draw near a woman than he falls under the power of her spell, and his senses are forthwith paralyzed" (Tolstoy, 84). Again, Tolstoy hits the nail on the head. It's not as sexist as it seems in this cherry picked passage as Pozdnyshev lays much of the blame for women being treated as an object of pleasure on man's shoulders earlier and later in this section, but women once they have realized that they have been relegated to this position, have embraced it with such power that they turn the tables on the men objectifying them. There is an uncanny truth in this situation and the language Tolstoy uses expresses this truth perfectly.
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